Quicksand
by MNFrost
Summary: How would Sherlock's trials, adventures, and relationships differ if he was a woman? Rated M for later chapters. Will roughly follow the chronology of the show's cases but the characters are obviously AU. Begins with A Study in Pink. Stuffed with fluff and Johnlock, of a sort.
1. A Strange Meeting

[Disclaimer: I own none of the characters in this story, merely a creative exercise and a bit of fun.]

* * *

Chapter 1

Doctor John Watson sat in the uncomfortably low backed chair with his right hand resting on his cane and his left pressed firmly against his thigh. He willed the hand not to twitch as his therapist pressed on in her line of obnoxiously intrusive questioning. He pointedly dodged half of her inquiries, just slouching low in his chair and waiting for the hour to end. Yes, he had been having nightmares. How much more needed to be said about it? That he'd woken up sweating, crying, shaking? That he found the idea of facing day after mundane day unbearable? That his own family, what was left of it anyway, was as unattractive an option as living on the street or, God forbid, leaving London? All of that was true, but he really didn't see how it was any of her business.

"How's your blog going?" She asked in a put on upbeat voice after several minutes of silence.

"Yeah, good." John said, sitting up a little straighter and clearing his throat. "Very good." He had always been a terrible liar.

"You haven't written a word, have you?" She said, dropping the front.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." He countered immediately.

"And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean?" She sighed. "You've got to open up for this process to be at all helpful." John sat in stubborn silence. "John, you're a soldier and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you." She said sincerely. There was another long pause.

"Nothing happens to me." John said, deflated.

* * *

The television in the waiting room at St. Bartholomew's was always on and rarely paid attention to. In fact, the young man who sat the clerical desk couldn't remember an occasion where someone had actually asked for it to be turned up. That is, until the smartly dressed woman with short, dark curls had rather abruptly knocked on the glass divider and demanded it of him like it was his sole job. The woman in question never sat, choosing instead to pace in front of the set with her mobile in hand. The television was displaying a press conference at Scotland Yard.

"But you can't have serial suicides." One of the reporters on the television said adamantly.

"Well apparently you can." The Detective Inspector replied, clearly annoyed.

"These three people, there's nothing that links them?" Another reporter asked.

"There's no link we've found yet but we're looking for it. There has to be one." The DI said.

The woman in the hospital waiting room huffed loudly and tapped out a word on her phone before pressing send. A chorus of beeps came from the television and the woman's lips curled into a smug smile.

"If you've all got texts please ignore them." Said the lady Sergeant positioned next to the DI in front of the crowd of increasingly sceptical reporters.

"It just says 'Wrong'." One of the journalists said, holding up his phone.

"Can't you see how thick they are?" The dark haired woman said aloud, turning to one of the patients who was currently breathing heavily from a portable oxygen tank. The old lady just blinked over the top of her mask. "No, I don't suppose you can." The woman drawled before turning back to the set.

"As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. It's an unusual situation, we've got our best people investigating." The DI said. This time the woman laughed as she tapped out the word.

"Says 'Wrong' again." The same reporter interjected.

"I'm surprised that one can read." The woman said, once again to the old lady.

"Here you are. Bothering the patients?" A rail thin woman with her light auburn hair pulled back and a white lab coat on entered the room.

"Molly." The dark haired woman said, perking up instantly. "Do you have my body? Is it fresh?" Molly Hooper rolled her eyes and waved for the woman to follow her.

"Come on, Sherlock, before you give everyone a fright." Molly said. With one final glance at the press conference Sherlock Holmes followed, typing out one final message and clicking send.

The two women walked side by side down the corridor until the silence grew too uncomfortable for Molly. "You're looking well. Fit, I mean. Healthy." She said, smiling. It was Sherlock's turn to roll her eyes.

"Must we do this? The chit chat thing is so_ boring_." Sherlock said, drawing out the last word with revulsion.

"I just meant that it's nice to see you, that's all." Molly said, her voice tight. "And that I'm glad you're well."

"I was never ill, contrary to what those idiotic support programs might say. I know that you're not an actual doctor, but one would assume you might have picked up a thing or two." Sherlock replied crisply. "Now are we going to get to it or would you like to discuss the weather next?"

"All right! Christ, why do I put up with you?" Molly asked as she shoved the double doors to the morgue open with both hands.

"Probably because you are lonely and I am the only one other than the pathologist who comes in here with a pulse and without tears and you haven't yet gotten around to telling him that your name is, in fact, Molly not Mary so I doubt you will work up the courage to inundate him with your drivel any time in the near future." She spoke quickly, enunciating every word with her posh accent while following Molly into the morgue and producing a riding crop from underneath her topcoat.

"It was a rhetorical question, Sherlock." Molly bit back as she wheeled a metal slab over towards Sherlock with a black body bag on it.

"The finer points of discourse are wasted on you, Molly. Stick with what you know, hm? Now, how long?" Sherlock asked, taking off her coat and scarf as Molly unzipped the bag.

* * *

"Changed quite a bit since my day." John said as he entered the lab at Bart's, leaning heavily on his cane as he looked around. A portly man in glasses followed him, smiling warmly at Sherlock as they entered.

Holmes, for her part, was leaning over a microscope and barely gave the two men a fleeting glance. "Mike, can I borrow your mobile? There's no service on mine." She asked without looking up, merely holding out her hand across the workstation.

"What's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked, more curious than suspicious.

"I prefer to text." Sherlock replied, still not looking up.

"Sorry, left it in my coat." Mike said, picking up a phial of something to examine. Sherlock's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch to signal her disappointment.

"Here... you can use mine." John said, partly as a way to wedge himself into the conversation and hopefully earn the overlooked introduction. Sherlock sat up straight and spun in her seat to look at him.

"Oh, thank you." She said, standing and crossing to where he was holding out his phone. She would have made him bring it to her, but his offer caught her off guard. As Sherlock took the phone from him they both gave each other appraising looks. Hers was quick and subtle whereas John's was lingering. As she typed away he looked her up and down. She was tall, for a woman. A few inches taller than he was and well proportioned. Her hair was dark, curled, and barely hit her jaw. It was neat, like everything about her: her nails, manicured but not polished, her slim fitting trousers and silky blouse, all pressed. Beyond all of that John took notice of the fact that she was quite beautiful. He took a moment to admire her smooth, pale skin and thick eyelashes while she was typing. He was having a good look at her full lips, pressed together in a line of concentration when they suddenly parted and spoke. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I'm sorry?" John said, startled by her question and slightly embarrassed that Mike may have noticed that he had been staring. _Perhaps being flatmates with a woman isn't such a good idea._

"Which was it, in Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, looking up from the phone in her hands at John expectantly.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?" John said uncomfortably, looking between Sherlock's pale mask and Mike's amused expression. Sherlock had catalogued every visible detail of John's appearance, from his close cropped sandy coloured hair to his polished but worn light brown oxfords.

"Ah, coffee!" Sherlock declared as Molly walked in, thankful for the distraction. She handed John his phone back and went to snatch the cup out of Molly's hand on her way back to the microscope. She intended to keep the good doctor in the dark a bit longer.

"Who's this, then?" Molly asked, bringing a hand up to her hair self consciously as she looked at John. She completely overlooked Mike, predictably. Sherlock had to fight the urge to snort.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike said.

"Molly... Molly Hooper." She said, smiling.

"Uh, yeah. Pleasure." John said distractedly, still eyeing Sherlock. This time with suspicion.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock said as she bent over the microscope once more.

"Are you talking to yourself, again?" Molly asked sympathetically. Sherlock's mouth formed a firm line.

"I am asking Doctor Watson." She said.

"I'm sorry, what?" John had been left behind miles ago.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days, sometimes I talk all at once. I keep odd hours and I often bring work home with me. Any red flags? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock said, rattling off the most common reasons that previous cohabitants had kicked her out.

John smiled, clearly thinking that he'd caught on. "Oh, you told her about me." He said to Mike.

"Not a word." Mike held up his hands, looking like he was holding in a laugh.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John looked to Molly for help but she just smiled sweetly.

"I did." Sherlock said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I spoke with our mutual acquaintance this morning about the fact that I was difficult to find a flatmate for and here he is, ta da, just back from lunch with an old friend. One who has clearly just returned from military service in Afghanistan. It was hardly a great leap of logic." She picked up her coat from the back of her chair and began putting it on.

"How did you know about Afghanistan? And that I'm a doctor?" John demanded.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Between the two of us we should be able to afford it. Meet me there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, Got to dash." She looped her blue scarf around her neck. "I think I left my riding crop in the morgue." She flashed a brilliant smile and then headed for the door.

"That's it, then?" John said.

"That's what?" Sherlock took a step backwards and waited in the doorway.

"We've only just met and we're going to look at a flat?" Now it was John's turn to feel like he was having to point out the obvious.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked._ Honestly, what is it with people today wanting to talk incessantly?_

"We don't know a thing about each other. You'd just live with a strange man without knowing anything about him? I don't even know where we're meeting or, hell, I don't know your name." John said.

Sherlock gave him a reproachful look. "I know that you're an army doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother who you won't go to for help, even though he's clearly worried for you. Why is that, I wonder? Because of his drinking or because he recently left his wife? Then there's your therapist. . . thinks your limp is psychosomatic, which of course it is. That's quite enough to be going on with, don't you think? Military, strong sense of duty, a bit desperate but proud and principled. Plus, I'm fairly certain that I can outrun you, so I consider myself quite safe." The woman smirked and enjoyed the look of shock on John's face. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Ta." She walked out, letting the door swing shut dramatically behind her. _Today is shaping up to be a good day. Lets see about those bruises._

"Yeah, she's always like that." Mike said.

* * *

[Huzzah, you made it to the end of my first chapter. This is my first fic and it is ongoing so reviews are not only appreciated but essential. Your feedback will determine how this story plays out.

With that said, I don't intend to borrow so heavily from the show's scenes/dialogue in the future but there is just so much of these early introductory scenes that are too perfect to tamper with.

Those of you who are wondering what the MA rating is for, there will eventually be smut, violence, drug use/references, and all sorts of angst-filled fun and action. Thank you very much for reading. I'll do my best to update twice per week.]


	2. 221B

Chapter 2

John sat hunched in front of his red laptop, sipping tea from his RAMC mug and staring at the impatiently blinking cursor on the screen in front of him. _Is my life really so pointless that I'm writing about a woman that I met for five minutes?_ John sighed and set down the mug before picking at the keys with his index fingers.

**Today I met someone. A potential flatmate; God knows I need one. A woman; God knows I need one of those too. Sherlock Holmes. She's-**

John paused. What do I say about her? _What did Stamford say, 'she's always like that'? Like what?_ He kept on typing.

**She's arrogant. My first impression is that she probably has every reason to be. I don't know what she does for a living but she mentioned the morgue so forensics, perhaps**_. 'I often bring work home with me.'_** I hope not. I've never seen a pathologist wear silk. I've never seen a pathologist with such a great arse, either.**

John chuckled at himself as he reread what he'd written. "Rubbish." He announced to the empty one room rental. He highlighted everything and deleted it._ She knows everything about me and I know fuck all about her. How did she know all of that, anyway?_

John had a sudden brainwave and fished his mobile out of the pocket of his jeans. Smiling, he clicked his way to the internet browser. He was certain that, while using his phone, Sherlock must have googled him. The browser history was empty, but clearly she could have cleared it. He tried typing his own name into the search engine and clicking send. The link for his empty blog came up and countless other links about other fellows with his not-uncommon name. _That explains knowing that I was in the military, at least. It's on my blog. And Harry's name is on my phone. But how the hell did she know about Harry's drinking? If she'd looked that hard, she should at least have known that Harry is my sister._

John checked the message that Sherlock had sent from his phone.** If brother has green ladder, arrest brother.** _All right, bit odd._ He put the phone back and glared at the computer screen. He opened a new window and opened Google. _There can't be that many Sherlock Holmeses. Bloody strange name._ He typed it in and hit enter.

**The Science of Deduction**

John clicked the top link and scanned the page. "'Consulting detective'." He read aloud as he browsed the site. "'I observe everything.' Bit of a leap. 'Identify an airline pilot by his. . . left thumb?' All right, this is too ridiculous." John closed out of the page and scrubbed his face with his hands before returning to the blog window.

**A Strange Meeting**

**I'm no writer, but if Doctor Thompson thinks this will help then, brilliant. I know that I said nothing ever happens to me but today it did. Something happened.**

**Today I met a woman. The most peculiar woman. Sherlock Holmes. But no wait, before that. I was walking in the park. (See, Ella, I told you that I wasn't a writer.) I was walking in the park when I ran into an old mate from Bart's and happened to mention needing a flat share. He knew of someone in the same pickle and that is how I ended up back at Bart's being introduced to Sherlock. Well, actually we weren't really properly introduced but that didn't stop her from knowing every bloody thing about me.**

**When I got back to the flat I found a link to her website. Look it up if you don't believe me. It's mad. She's mad. Arrogant, a bit rude, and I have to admit. . . charming. I'm meeting up with her tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe I'll be staying in London after all. Maybe this is a fresh start.**

John published the rant before he could change his mind and closed the laptop. For the first time in weeks he wasn't apprehensive about going to bed because instead of worrying that he would have nightmares his mind was preoccupied with the puzzling madwoman and her deductions.

* * *

Sherlock stepped out of the cab in front of 221 Baker Street and handed the cabbie a tenner without giving the man a second glance. John was waiting under the red awning of Speedy's café wearing a black shooting jacket, rather than the beat up army coat he had worn the day prior, and his hair combed neatly. He leaned on his cane superficially and his eyes darted here and there in anticipation. Sherlock smiled, amused by the doctor's body language, which tensed considerably when he caught sight of her. "Hello." She said, approaching him and ignoring his offer to shake her hand.

"Ah, Miss Holmes. Or is it Misses?" John asked, giving up and stuffing his hand into his pocket self consciously.

"Sherlock, please." She said without answering his question.

"I'm not likely to forget that." John said, trying a smile.

"No." She replied. "I imagine you aren't. Not like John, anyway. John. John." She rolled his name around her mouth a few times as though trying to think of a way to say it that wasn't boring. Her voice was low and a bit husky from years of smoking. It rumbled pleasantly from her chest and somehow softened the blow of her frequent insults. "Hm. How frightfully unimaginative your parents were. Oh well, it's not your fault."

"Uh, thanks?" John raised both eyebrows. Sherlock pushed the bell with a gloved finger and said nothing. _Right, let's try this again._ "Must be expensive, prime spot like this."

"The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, owes me a favour. She's giving me a good rate." Sherlock said. "A few years back her husband got himself in some nasty business in America. Sentenced to death. I managed to help."

"You got him off?" John was impressed.

"Oh, no." She said happily. "I ensured it." There was that smile again, brilliant and a little devious. _So she likes to brag. But she can't really be serious._

An older lady in a plum coloured dress opened the door and beamed at Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson." She said with warmth, bending down to allow the lady to kiss her cheek. "This is Dr. John Watson. Shall we?" She swept past Mrs. Hudson and into the building.

"Hello. Do come in, Doctor." The lady said, waving him in while pulling on his arm.

"Thank you." John said, limping through the door and looking at the stairs with resignation. Mrs. Hudson followed him, waiting patiently as he picked his way up each step with the aid of his cane. Sherlock was waiting inside the flat amidst towering stacks of boxes and books. She had discarded her coat and was wearing a tailored, grey sheath dress and flat, expensive looking boots. John knew little of women's fashion but he approved of anything body skimming and was pleased that she hadn't worn heels and made him feel even shorter. He looked around the flat, weaving through boxes into the kitchen which was cluttered with lab equipment. "Well, this could be very nice. Just as soon as all this rubbish is cleared away."

"Sherlock, did you move all of your-oh, look at the mess you've made." Mrs. Hudson said when she entered the room.

"This is all yours?" John asked, looking at the clutter with new found disgust.

"I work from home." Sherlock said, pulling herself up to her full height and busying her hands with stacking papers. "It requires a great deal of equipment. But obviously I can tidy up a bit." She put a stack of correspondence on the mantle and produced a utility knife seemingly from thin air and pinned the letters to the wood.

"There's a second bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms." Mrs. Hudson said. Sounding almost hopeful.

"Yes, no. . . of course we'll be needing two. We aren't-" John stammered.

"I'll need a place for him to stay out of my way while I'm working, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock interjected.

"Yes, your work." John said, fluffing a small cushion before letting himself fall back into the only chair that wasn't currently covered in Sherlock's mess. "I looked you up last night, on the internet. Found your website."

"And?" Sherlock said, clasping her hands behind her back. She looked like she was posing for a photograph most of the time, but John was starting to suspect that was just _her_.

"It's all a bit hard to believe, isn't it? This science of deduction business." John said.

Mrs. Hudson, sensing an impending rant, excused herself to the kitchen to tidy Sherlock's makeshift lab. Sherlock cleared her throat and levelled her eyes on John. He stared back, unflinching, which won him a modicum of respect in her book. "Oh, I don't know. I could tell your military career by your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits and marital status by your mobile phone."

"How?" John asked.

"By** looking**. You've had a day to figure it out and don't tell me that you didn't try." Sherlock said.

"Of course I did." John admitted.

"Then you should know. You can't be that thick, they let you cut people open for Heaven's sake." She scoffed. "That's the NHS for you."

John gritted his teeth and exhaled through his nose. He was becoming less and less bewitched by her arse by the minute. "Let's start with my face."

"A bit round. If you grew your hair out a tad your ears might not seem so out of proportion, but otherwise pleasant enough." Sherlock said. She could have said much more but she didn't think mentioning that she'd noted the colour of his eyes (_chocolate_) or the scar under his chin (_bike accident?_) was nearly as amusing.

"And you figured out that I served by my ears, did you?" John said.

"No." Sherlock looked back at him pointedly and drew in a long breath. "But your haircut does. That and the way you hold yourself scream military training, beaten into you until it's second nature. But then there was the comment yesterday—bit different from my day- that says that you trained at Bart's, like Mike Stamford. So, army doctor. Bit obvious. Then there's your tan. Face, hands. . . bit hard to manage in London, but the tan doesn't extend above your wrists so you've been abroad but not sunbathing. No one sunbathes in a shirt. And that atrocious limp, quite bad when you walk but you didn't think to ask for a chair and you barely lean on the cane at all when you stand. It's at least partially psychosomatic, which of course denotes that the circumstances surrounding the injury were traumatic—traumatically injured army doctor with a suntan—narrowed it down to Afghanistan or Iraq, which you answered for me." She looked away again, walking to the mantle and putting her hand on the human skull next to the pile of papers as though bracing herself for something.

"And my therapist?" John asked, still processing everything that she had said.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you have a therapist. And if they're any good, they'll have assumed the true nature of your limp and put you on some sort of reintegration into society program." Sherlock's voice was full of disdain, showing that while she might respect human psychology she had no love for its practitioners. "Aren't you going to ask about your brother?"

"My wha—oh, uh sure." John said.

"Your mobile." She led out her hand and wiggled her fingers until he got the hint and gave her the phone. "Nokia, N97. Expensive. And here you are a practical army man looking for a flat share, you wouldn't waste money on something like this. A gift, then. But not for you." She said.

"The engraving." John said.

"Mm. Scratches, too. Been in a pocket or bag with keys and coins; previously owned. Harry Watson, clearly a relative. Could be a cousin or something but since you're an invalid war hero who can't find a place to live, it's unlikely that you have an extended family. At least not one that you get on with." Sherlock said.

"Why not my father?" John asked, leaning forward slightly and getting into the game of it, delighted that he knew something that she didn't.

"This is a young man's gadget. Too many bells and whistles. No, it has to be a brother. And Clara, there's an interesting bit. Three kisses, aww—must be love. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend, and this model is only six months old. If your brother had the money to buy a new phone every six months, why buy one for him as a gift and why have it engraved? No, he's given it away because the relationship is over. If she had left him then he might have kept it, sentiment you know. People do these things." She said with a smirk, amused by the plight of ordinary people. "Nope, he left her. And what's more, he gave the phone to **you**, suggesting that he wants to make sure that you can contact him. But instead of going to him, you pour your heart out-"

"I did no such thing." John insisted.

"-to Mike in the park. You're unwilling to go to your brother for help. Maybe you liked his wife. I'd say too much, but you aren't the type to go after another man's woman. You want one all your own." John blushed. "Maybe you didn't like his drinking."

"All right. How the hell could you possibly know about the drinking?" John said.

"Oh, that was a shot in the dark." She said, moving closer and sitting on the arm of his chair causing him to pull his hand back quickly and put it awkwardly on his knee. "Good one though. See the power connection?" She leaned down to show him. "Tiny scratches. Every night he went to plug it in but his hands were shaking. Of course, those could be from your hands. . . psychosomatic limp, it isn't outside the realm of possibility that you have an intermittent tremor but you've already confirmed my hypothesis about your brother so there you have it."

"That. . . was amazing." John said, looking up at her. She froze, still leaning over him.

"Really?" She said, blinking like she was dazed.

"Yes. Really, truly extraordinary. I didn't believe it last night, but you really are—well, extraordinary." John said.

"That's not what people usually say." She said.

"What do people usually say?" John's eyebrows scrunched a bit.

"Fuck off." She said with a smirk, her voice making the word sound even more vulgar. John shifted in his seat and laughed genuinely.

"Well, I hope you don't expect that kind of reaction from me." John said.

"You've known me for a day, Doctor. Give it time." She dropped the phone back into his lap, making him jump a little. He cleared his throat.

"John. You can call me John." He said, even though she had already used his given name.

"John." She smiled and then sat up straight. He felt as though all the air had suddenly rushed back into the room. "So, did I get anything wrong?" She asked, standing up and smoothing down the front of her dress.

"Harry and me don't get on. Never have. Clara and Harry are getting a divorce, she moved out three months ago now. And Harry_ is_ a drinker." John decided not to mention that he did, in fact, have a tremor in his left hand.

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." Sherlock said with false modesty.

"But Harry? Short for Harriet." John said smugly.

"Harriet?!" Sherlock spun around immediately. "Your sister. _She_ moved out, of course." She hissed the word. "It's always bloody something, isn't it? What kind of woman calls herself 'Harry'. Even a lesbian. . . is she transgender? Because then technically I would be right."

"Nope, sorry. Just gay." John was very amused by her bruised ego.

"Well, it's a ridiculous name." She said, moving to the window to pout.

"You're one to talk." John said.

"I see your point." Sherlock frowned. "My mind must be getting rusty. I need a case. A _real_ challenge. It's been too long."

"What about the woman whose husband drowned?" Mrs. Hudson said, coming out of the kitchen with a bin liner full of stuff.

"Child's play. The brother did it. Green paint, Mrs. Hudson. Green paint." She said, sounding thoroughly bored as she gazed out of the window.

"Have a look at these suicides, then." Mrs. Hudson picked up the paper and waved it at her tenant after tying off the bag. "Three exactly the same, sounds right up your street."

"Four." Sherlock said, pulling aside the curtain and spotting the police car outside. "There's been a fourth."

"Fourth?" Mrs. Hudson looked at John, though he was clearly just as confused as she was.

"And there's something different about this one- what is in there? I've told you, don't touch my experiments. Whatever it is, put it back!" Sherlock said, pointing to the bag.

"Experiments?" John looked grave. _What am I getting myself into?_

"Where?" Sherlock asked. It took John a moment to realize that someone else had entered the room. The Detective Inspector that he had seen all over television.

"Brixton. Lauristan Gardens." DI Lestrade said.

"And what's so interesting about this one? You wouldn't have come to me if there wasn't something new." Sherlock said, examining her meticulously filed nails.

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did." Lestrade said. "So will you come?" He said, annoyed that he had to even ask.

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked, doing a very good impression of being disinterested.

"Anderson." Lestrade said reluctantly.

"Anderson." Sherlock spat the word. "He's about as useful as the male nipple."

"Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson scolded.

"He won't work with me." Sherlock said defensively.

"He won't be your bloody assistant, no. But if you tried—" Lestrade said impatiently.

"I **need** an assistant." Sherlock said.

"Are you coming?" Lestrade's patience had worn out.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right along, don't worry." Sherlock said, waving her hand dismissively.

"Thank you." Lestrade let out a sigh and nodded to John and Mrs. Hudson before leaving. Sherlock waited, frozen, until the door closed before she burst into giggles normally reserved for girls a third her age.

"Brilliant! Four suicides and now a NOTE!" She grabbed Mrs. Hudson's shoulders and grinned at her. "Isn't it exciting? Don't wait up. John, make yourself at home. Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure he'd love a cup of tea."

"All right, but just this once dear. I'm not your housekeeper." She said, unable to keep from smiling. Something about Sherlock's morbid glee was infectious.

"Some biscuits too, if you've got them." John said with a sigh as the lady left the room.

"Not your housekeeper." She called back. John watched Sherlock pull on her coat and wrap herself in her scarf, full of jealousy.

"You." Sherlock said, getting John's attention. "You're a doctor." She couldn't explain why but John didn't seem to annoy her as much as everyone else and it would be nice to have someone on a crime scene that didn't make her want to actually commit murder. Seeing his longing look as she put on her coat made her realize exactly how to persuade him.

"Yes." John said, clearly not understanding where this was going.

"An army doctor, in fact." She walked closer. "Are you any good?"

"I'm very good." John replied. _Are we flirting or is she challenging me?_

"I'll bet you've seen lots of death. Blood. Gore."

"Of course." John stood up without leaning on his cane, fixated on her.

"And action, too. Violence. Terrible things." Her words were almost hypnotic.

"Yes, yes I have. Too much, really. Enough." He cleared his throat. "Enough for a lifetime." Sherlock reached for John's coat.

"Want to see some more?" She asked with a mischievous smirk.

"Oh, God, yes." John said, grabbing his coat and limping after her as quickly as he could. She flew down the stairs, grinning ear to ear. "I'll skip the tea, Mrs. Hudson, thanks."

"Both of you are going? Oh, Sherlock are you sure-" Mrs. Hudson said.

"What is the point in either of us sitting here doing nothing when there's finally something fun going on? Impossible suicides! Brilliant!" Sherlock said. John found that he couldn't have agreed more.

"Don't be so cheerful about it, it's not becoming. You're a lady." Mrs. Hudson said, waving them out the door.

"No, I'm a detective and the game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" Sherlock stepped out onto the street. "Taxi!"

* * *

[A bit long again, but I can't seem to find a good place to cut them off. I'm just having too much fun, I guess. This one is also very heavy on dialogue from the show, but hopefully you think it's a bit more original than Chapter 1. As I said before, it's an ongoing story so reviews, of any sort, are always appreciated. Thanks so much for reading!]


	3. Insight

Chapter 3

They had been in the cab for some time, both sitting in uncomfortable silence as Sherlock stared out the window and tapped her fingers impatiently on her bare knee, when John decided to break the tension. "So how did you get into all this? Private detecting, I mean."

"Consulting." Sherlock said, still gazing out the window._ Via the A23 it's 7.2 miles to Brixton. We should have taken the A202. Estimated remainder of trip with current traffic conditions: 32 minutes. Damn._

"Sorry?" John said.

"I am a consulting detective. The only one in the world." She said.

"So you made the job up." John said. It wasn't a question but Sherlock seemed to ignore that fact.

"Yes." She said, finally turning to look at him. "I consult with the police when they are out of their depth, which is always. And I take on private clients."

"You help people." John said with a smile. _Maybe she isn't so barmy after all._

"If they interest me." Sherlock said with a slight nod of her head.

"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" John's smile faltered and his forehead creased with concern.

"Life is more than a bit harsh, John. Pretending to care about every person who is surprised when they are faced with that fact would be exhausting." She said flippantly.

"But you must care about some of them. Otherwise why do it?" John said.

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow. "For the challenge, of course." Her face relaxed and twisted into one of her smug, cruel smiles. "I see. You think me cold and heartless."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far-" John started.

"You may as well. It makes no difference to me." She shifted in her seat to face him fully. Their knees brushed in the cramped back seat and John flinched away, which Sherlock noted and filed away for later analysis. "Consider this: you went to medical school, but clearly not to make money because you joined the military, probably immediately given your age and rank. Yes, I googled you as well. Could have been to assist you with your loans, but more likely driven by the same sense of duty that caused you to become a doctor in the first place. You care. About people, the world, Britain, etcetera etcetera." Sherlock said. "And I do not."

John frowned, not liking the idea that his life's motivations could be summed up so succinctly. "Then what do you care about?"

Sherlock didn't answer. She shifted back to the window just as they passed Big Ben and crossed the Thames. _Vauxhall Bridge would have been faster._ John was quiet again as they continued South and West towards Brixton, making Sherlock more and more tense by the moment. As unpleasant as the idea of cohabitation was, she needed a flatmate and John seemed ideal. He was intelligent, of a sort, and clearly desperate which was tantamount to being tolerant so there was little chance of him walking out once he was settled. He was even pleasant to look at, though quite easy to ignore when necessary; a perfect combination in her book. Most important was the way he had responded to her deductions. Amazing. Extraordinary. Charming, on his blog where he thought I wouldn't see. Arrogant, rude, and possibly mental as well. . . but that sort of reaction is to be expected from normal people. Charming. People only found Sherlock charming when she wanted them to, and though she would admit to showing off for the Doctor she hadn't employed any of her usual manipulative tricks (apart from playing on his love of adrenaline to get him to come out tonight). As the silence stretched on Sherlock was filled with anxiety, thinking that perhaps she had been too honest and that when the cab stopped John would shake her hand and go on his way, never to see the mad, charming woman again.

"I can't decide if you're full of shit or not." John finally said with a chuckle, eliciting a slight smirk from Sherlock as the only outward indication of the relief she felt.

"Have you decided whether you intend to stay and find out?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not sure that I can keep up with you." John said, looking remorsefully at his leg.

Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. "We've arrived." She announced triumphantly as the cab slowed. She handed the cabbie a few notes and stood up, fastening her coat around her. "Flashing lights, blue tape, a cluster of idiots trying desperately to prove that they aren't a waste of tax dollars. This must be the right place."

* * *

"Unbelievable." John said. "Unbe-fucking-lievable." He looked up and down the unfamiliar street.

"She does that." Sally Donovan said, leaning her hip against one of the many police cars nearby and folding her arms across her chest.

"What, just up and leaves without telling anyone?" John fumed, fishing his mobile out of his pocket and then realizing that he didn't even have her phone number.

"You seem like a nice enough bloke so let me give you some advice." Sally said. "Get in a cab, go home, and forget that you ever met Sherlock Holmes."

John rounded on the woman, his brow raised. "Why should I do that? Because she blew the lid off of your little affair earlier or because she steps on your toes by being better at your job than you are?" John's own impressions of Sherlock were still very mixed, but he had decided right away that he didn't much care for Sally Donovan.

"Because she's a psychopath." Sally said, scowling. "Complete fucking nutter. She comes here because she gets off on it, the crimes, the killings. Weirder the better. And one of these days, we'll be standing over a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one who put it there."

"If it's Anderson's body the collective IQ of Britain will rise sharply." Sherlock said as she came around the corner, her breath coming out in frequent, visible puffs in the cold air and her pale cheeks flushed pink. She had made it several blocks, talking through the details of the crime scene, before she realized that John wasn't at her side and jogged back. "Though if I were investigating his murder, I'd start with the wife you conveniently forget about from time to time." She smirked, enjoying the look of shock on Donovan's face, and secretly enjoying the pleased surprise written all over John's. "Do hurry up, John."

"Uh... right." He said, leaning on his cane and limping towards her.

"Don't say I didn't warn you." Sally called out as they rounded the corner and disappeared.

"Thought you'd gone." John said, a smile lighting up his boyishly handsome face which certainly did not make Sherlock want to smile as well.

"I had." Sherlock replied. "But I need someone to hold the torch."

"The torch? Where are we going?" John asked, not having followed Sherlock's train of thought at the crime scene at all.

"Sociopath." Sherlock said, once again avoiding answering his question.

"What's that now?" John said, fairly certain that prolonged exposure to Sherlock was giving him a headache.

"Sgt. Donovan said that I was a psychopath. As usual she is mistaken. I'm a high functioning sociopath." Sherlock said, stopping in front of a large skip.

"Oh. Right." John said uncomfortably. "And that's what you were trying to get across in the car, yeah?"

"Mm." She hummed noncommittally, looking around the base of the skip.

"It must bother you, the stuff she said. Her and Anderson." John had the protective impulse to go back and give them both a piece of his mind.

"Why should it?" She asked, pulling a torch from her coat and handing it to him before taking said coat off and handing that to him as well. She kept her fine leather gloves on.

"Well, I know I'd be riled if someone accused me of being a psycho killer." John said, looking quizzically down at the items and back up at Sherlock. She was still wearing the smart, grey dress and was, in all likelihood, now freezing in the late January evening air.

"You get used to it." She said, smiling at him over her shoulder before grabbing the edge of the bin and pulling herself up and over with the strength of her arms.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" John said, nearly dropping her coat and torch.

"Investigating." She said. "Now come on... I can't see a thing."

"Now I'm going to say it: fuck off. I'm not crawling in rubbish." John said indignantly. Sherlock poked her head up over the edge of the bin, wearing a knowing smile.

"Not even to apprehend the man who has murdered four people and might, at this moment, be out there searching for his next innocent victim?" She said, giving her low voice a somber, serious quality. John groaned and started to take off his own jacket. Sherlock's smile turned into a grin. "You are going to be fun John, I can tell."

* * *

[Now that we're getting a bit deeper into the characters I'd love to know what you all think. And Mycroft lovers, don't worry. You'll get your fix next chapter. Thank you all for reading!]


	4. A Visitor

Chapter 4

"Do you have a cigarette?" Sherlock asked, breaking the half hour long silence that had filled the cab. She had Jennifer Wilson's pink case lying across her knees and was strumming her fingers on it impatiently. John had been just about to doze off when her question roused him.

"Hmm?" He said, rubbing his eyes. He needed sleep, desperately. _And a shower. I can't believe I crawled in a bloody skip full of rubbish for this woman._

"No, you wouldn't, would you? Being a doctor and all." She said, wrinkling her nose a bit.

"I didn't realize that you smoked." John said.

"You've known me for a day and most of the time you've spent with me has been indoors." Sherlock said.

"And in rubbish." John grumbled.

"Oh yes, we can't forget that." She said sarcastically.

"I rather hope I do." John quipped back.

"At any rate, your experience with me hardly qualifies you to make assumptions about my habits, since you're so clearly blind to nearly everything." She said.

"Well, I haven't failed to notice that you don't have any cigarettes on you, and since I've been with you ninety percent of the time since you left the house and haven't seen you smoke, that seems a bit odd." John said. No one had ever called him stupid before. Foolish, perhaps, but his intelligence had never been in question.

"I quit." Sherlock stated as a reward for his deduction. "Impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London, which is bad for brainwork as nicotine helps me think."

"It's good for breathing, though." John said, trying to be funny.

"Ugh, breathing." Sherlock rolled her eyes childishly. "Breathing is boring."

"Well, if I move in I'd like to breathe in the flat, from time to time, so I'd rather you didn't smoke." John said.

"When." Sherlock replied.

"Sorry?" John said.

"When you move in, not if. You've already made up your mind." She said, the corners of her lips turning up in a way that John found both appealing and a little unsettling.

"What, could you tell that from my aftershave or something?" John said, laughing nervously. _How could I really resist when climbing in rubbish is the most fun I've had recently?_

"You don't wear aftershave. You use an electric shaver, not a razor." She said as the taxi stopped. John's hand rose instinctively to his cheek as he looked out the window to see the flat building he was currently renting in.

John had been so exhausted moments ago but now the idea of leaving her and returning to his depressing little flat was daunting. "So. . . I'll call you, then? About the flat, I mean." He added the last part very quickly, so that he wasn't misinterpreted.

"I prefer to text." Sherlock said, watching him expectantly as she resumed her finger tapping. He got the hint and opened the door, leaning on his cane as he stood.

"Right." He said. "So, that's good night then." John said through the window after closing the door.

"Baker street. 221, please." She said to the cabbie who pulled away, leaving John standing on the sidewalk half amused, half annoyed. By the time John made it up to his flat, he was rethinking the shower in favor of immediate sleep. _One thing for certain, with Sherlock around I'm not likely to get bored._

"Good evening, Doctor Watson." A cool voice said from the small chair in front of John's desk. John froze. The impulse to reach for his gun was strong, but he knew that it was in his desk drawer. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not armed either." The man said, as though he'd read John's mind. He was well dressed in a fine three piece suit and tie with his coat draped over the back of the chair and an umbrella resting against his knee. His dark hair was neatly combed and he wore a smug, cold smile. He looked very at ease, his long legs crossed and his fingers steepled in front of him. He didn't look like any sort of burglar that John had ever seen.

"Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my room?" John said, his voice stern and strong. His hand flexed around the handle of his cane, considering how effective a weapon it could be in a pinch.

"I dropped by for a chat." The man said, like they were old friends. "Please, have a seat."

"Offering me a seat in my own room?" John said.

"Yes, of course. . . how silly of me." He stood gracefully, sweeping up his coat. "Have mine."

"I'd rather stand." John said, narrowing his eyes.

"Your leg must be hurting." The man said, smiling like he knew some private joke.

"I'll ask once more, what are you doing here?" John said. The man sighed and examined the handle of his umbrella for a moment.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?" He said.

"Who is asking?" John demanded.

"A concerned party." The man said. "Doctor Watson, I've infiltrated your apartment with little trouble, ensured that we won't be disturbed, and found out everything there is to know about you down to the name of your childhood pet. Bailey, by the way." He paused to smile. "I won't bother threatening you; surely you're clever enough to realize the situation you're in."

"And that's supposed to frighten me?" John said, standing a little straighter.

"It should, yes." He looked John up and down subtly. _Handsome enough, but ordinary. She isn't after him for his looks. A doctor, that is a possibility. . . but he isn't practicing, so what could she need from him there? What does Sherlock want from this man?_"Bravery is the kindest name for stupidity, don't you think?"

"I barely know her." John said finally. "If you're so connected, you know that."

"And yet in twenty-four hours you've seen a flat together and are out prowling crime scenes." The man said, his smile fading. "What are your intentions?"

"Intentions? Why the hell do you care? I'm guessing you're not friends." John said, raising his voice slightly.

"You've met her. How many friends do you imagine she has?" He asked, seeming amused once more.

"Right, so what does that make you?" John asked, wanting to roll his eyes.

"The closest thing she has to a friend." _Family._"An enemy." He said.

"An enemy?" John tensed.

"In her mind, certainly." The man said. For a second he looked a million miles away, as though remembering something. "To hear her say it, probably her arch enemy. She does so love to be dramatic." He said wistfully.

"Well thank God you're above all that." John smirked. His mobile beeped and he fished it out of his pocket, mostly to remind the man that he did, in fact, have his phone. **Angelo's. Northumberland St. Come at once if convenient. SH** the text message read. John's pulse quickened slightly. _What could Sherlock want at this hour? We only just left each other_.

"As to your intentions, I do hope that they aren't romantic." The man said, his expression looking genuinely concerned.

"I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that isn't any of your bloody business." John said, his patience wearing thin.

"It is, actually." The man said.

"It really isn't." John laughed tensely. "Bit old for her, aren't you?" His phone beeped again. **If inconvenient, come anyway. SH **said another text. _Sherlock, what have you gotten me into?_

"A little friendly advice, from someone who has known Sherlock much longer than you have. . . she is as human as your laptop and nearly as likely to return any affections you might be harboring."

"I'm not-we're just flatmates." John said quickly.

"So you are moving in together, then?" The man smiled slowly, pulling a small moleskine notebook from his pocket. "To-221B Baker Street. How nice. Central London. In that case, I am willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to help you out."

"Why?" John asked, taken back.

"Because you aren't a wealthy man." He flipped the page. "Why, your checking account has only-"

"What do you want?" John asked, cutting him off. The man bristled, clearly unaccustomed to not being respected.

"The only thing worth anything: information." The man said. "Nothing sordid. Her comings and goings, that's all. I just want to know what she's getting up to."

"Why do you care?" John desperately wanted to know who this man was. Another text message: **It might be dangerous. I need you. SH.** _I have to get out of here. Is this all a distraction, something to keep me busy while they get to her?_

"I worry about her. Constantly." He drew the word out in the same manner as Sherlock often did to prove a point.

"Right, concerned you said. Concerned arch enemy, lovely." John shook his head. "You can keep your sodding money."

"Oh? Wounded pride?" The man's mocking smile was back.

"Just disinterest." John's jaw clenched involuntarily.

"You're very loyal very quickly. Could this be love?" The man asked.

"I don't want anything to do with you or whatever fucking game you're playing. Just stay away from me. And Sherlock." John's voice dropped low and he pointed with his left hand, his right still gripping his cane fiercely. _'Might be dangerous. I need you.' I need to go. She needs me._

"'And Sherlock.' Fascinating." The man smiled. "You should fire your therapist."

"Why is that?" John sighed.

"Because she has you all wrong. The intermittent tremor in your left hand, she thinks it's post traumatic stress disorder. Haunted by memories of violence and death." He said. John immediately dropped his hand and looked at it, flattening out his palm. "Yet here you are, fresh from a crime scene, strange man in your room, under stress and intimidation and your hand is steady as a rock." His smile broadened. "You aren't traumatized by the war, Doctor. You miss it. And Sherlock Holmes is your ticket back into the fray." John said nothing, just stared at his hand. The man pulled on his coat and walked around John to the door, opening it. John took the opportunity and quickly moved to the desk, pulling open the drawer and grabbing his gun. It was comfortable in his hand and he instantly felt more in control of the situation. "You don't need that. You have nothing to fear from me. Unless. . ." The man said, causing John to raise the gun slightly. "You hurt her. Then we will find your bravery's breaking point." The man bowed his head politely before turning his back on John and leaving the room.

* * *

"Well, you certainly took your time." Sherlock said when John walked through the door. She had changed into a different curve hugging dress, deep green this time, and was sitting at a booth by the window of the small Italian restaurant.

"I was-I'll explain later. What's the emergency?" John asked, breathing heavy from rushing.

"Emergency?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. The emergency. You texted me, remember? You said that you. . ." John cleared his throat. "You needed me."

"Yes, I did." Sherlock smiled.

"And?!" John said impatiently.

"I hate eating alone." She gestured to the seat adjacent to her own. "Sit." John sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping.

"And the danger is, what, that you may choke on a meatball?" John said. _Well, I am hungry. _He moved to take the seat.

"Well, you are a doctor. I would assume that you can perform the heimlich maneuver adequately." She said, picking up her menu.

"So there's no danger?" John asked, unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed.

"I said 'might' be dangerous." She said without looking up. "And it may be yet, when the killer gets here."

* * *

[Sorry to cut it off there, but the rest of the scene would have made the chapter _way _too long. Chapter 5 will be up soon. Any input in your reviews will help me shape the story, so by all means let me know what you think. Thank you all for reading!]


	5. The Chase

Chapter 5

"So let me get this straight: you texted the killer at Jennifer Wilson's phone number and now you're waiting for him to show up here?" John sat with his elbows on either side of his plate of cooling spaghetti. He rubbed his tired eyes and tried to process everything that Sherlock had told him, still angry that he had been brought here under false pretenses. Sherlock had rattled off her series of deductions about the case and the victim's phone with barely a pause, even when the owner of the restaurant had come over to sing her praises and again when their food was brought. John wondered if she'd mastered some sort of circular breathing technique in order to be able to speak so rapidly. "And we're what, waiting for him to walk in?"

"Not here." Sherlock said, neatly twirling some of her own pasta around her fork. "There." She gestured to the building across the intersection that she hadn't stopped staring at since she sat down.

"And you knew that the killer would have the phone because. . .?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed, rolled her eyes, chewed, and swallowed before answering him. "Because he clearly had and then disposed of the case, unless you think Miss Wilson chucked her own luggage in the bin. There was no phone on the body, no phone in the case-conclusion: the killer has it. Perhaps it was incriminating in some way, perhaps it just fell out in his car. And before you ask, yes I considered the possibility that the mobile had fallen out in the dumpster but my suspicions were confirmed when the killer reacted to my text by phoning me." Sherlock held up her own mobile, displaying a missed call from a withheld number.

"Right, okay. But now you think that he's just going to show up? That'd be mad!" John said, turning to look out the window himself.

"He _has_ killed four people." Sherlock drawled. "Stop that. Stop staring."

"You're staring." John said.

"Well we can't both stare. Eat your supper and try not to look conspicuous, will you?" Sherlock said, giving a tiny shake of her head as she returned to her own food.

"I'm conspicuous? You scream private detective in that coat with your collar all turned up. You should get a fedora to match." John said grumpily, beginning to eat his food all the same. Sherlock's gaze shifted from the window to John momentarily, noting his expression and his posture.

"Alright, what's wrong?" She asked.

"Wrong?" John looked confused. This evening just grew more and more bizarre and after his meal he had every intention of going straight to bed and trying to forget that any of this had happened. _Maybe I'm not cut out for this. I can start looking for a more sensible flatshare in the morning._

"Yes. Something has happened since I left you at your flat. What is it?" Sherlock said before taking another bite. _This is where he says: 'I had a chance to think about it and realized that you're mad. I never want to see you again.' How disappointing; I really thought this one might prove a bit less predictable._

"I met a friend of yours." John said wearily. Sherlock's eyebrows went up and she put down her fork.

"A friend?" She asked, her mind drawing a blank.

"An enemy." John clarified. Sherlock's expression softened and she tucked back into her meal.

"Ah. Which one?" She asked nonchalantly.

"Your arch enemy, he says." John said. "People don't have arch enemies, Sherlock. You aren't a superhero or something."

"Perhaps emotionally distant genius consulting detective is my cover." She said, licking a bit of sauce from her lower lip. "What I get up to at night, when I put on my cape and mask, that's my real identity. I do hope that you can keep a secret, John. I'd hate to have to wipe your memories." John found her ability to say all of this with a completely straight face very unsettling, but it also hinted at a sense of humor that he hadn't yet seen from her. He grinned in spite of himself, forgetting for a moment that he was annoyed.

"Ha ha, very clever." He said.

"Did my nemesis offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked, sitting up a little straighter. She was pleased to have made John smile and still held out hope that he might accept and move into 221B.

"He did." John said, clearly surprised.

"That's a very super-villainous thing to do, don't you think? Did you take it?" She asked.

"No! Of course not." John was offended that she would think him that devious, but then she had only known him for a day.

"Pity. We could have split the money." She said, secretly charmed by his incorruptibility. She knew how persuasive her brother could be.

"I'll be sure to say yes next time someone asks me to betray you." John frowned. "Sherlock, this man broke into my bloody flat and was waiting for me. What kind of shady shit are you getting me into?"

"Nothing you need worry about." Sherlock said, going back to staring across the street. "He wasn't after you. He was checking up on me." _So, my dear brother hasn't forgotten about me._

"Who the hell is he? Psychotic ex boyfriend?" John asked, only half in jest.

"No. That would be quite a feat." Sherlock said.

"How do you mean?" John asked.

"Me, having a boyfriend. Ex or current, his mental health notwithstanding." She said coolly.

"Oh." John said, immediately picking up on her subtext because of his sister. "So, do you have a girlfriend, then?" _I am never letting Harry anywhere near Sherlock. She's far too fit._

"A girlfriend? No." Sherlock looked at him sideways. "You assume I'm gay."

"I. . . You aren't?" John was confused again, something that he was starting to get use to.

"I'm not seeing anyone." She said, avoiding answering him once again. _Complete waste of time and energy, relationships, with both genders._

"Right." John said, very uncomfortable. _I've managed to offend the rudest person I've ever met. Quite an achievement. Still, a woman who looks like that, single at her age?_

"Twenty-nine." Sherlock said.

"I'm sorry, did I say something?" _Well done again, John._

"You were looking at my face, rather intently. Given our current topic of pointless conversation, I can quite easily assume that you were trying to assess my age. I am twenty-nine." Sherlock said without looking at him. "And you are thirty two."

"Quite right. And single." John blurted. "Like you." Sherlock turned her head slightly and raised an eyebrow. _Uh oh._

"John." She said. "I am very flattered but I do hope that my invitation hasn't given you the wrong idea-"

"No, no!" John's cheeks went pink under his day old stubble. "I just meant, it's fine. Gay, straight, single, whatever. . . It's all fine."

"Well, that's a relief. Here I was worried sick that you would judge me." Sherlock said sarcastically. "You've taken a weight off my shoulders, thank you."

"Alright, fine. Who was the man in my damn flat, then?" John said, not letting himself be distracted again.

"A lackey of the Crown. I would tell you more, but he'd have to kill you." She said, sounding very bored. _Really, Mycroft, don't you have better things to do than terrorize the poor bloke?_

"Why do you have the government checking up on you?" John's eyes went wide. _Dammit Stamford, this is not the sort of excitement I need. _It never occurred to John that she might be lying.

"I don't. You err in assuming that his occupation has anything to do with why he was in your flat." Sherlock said. "But he isn't my problem right now, or had you forgotten that there's a killer on the loose?"

"A killer that you think will just walk up to that building and ring the bell." John said.

"That's the frailty of genius, John, it needs an audience. Appreciation! Applause!" Sherlock said.

"Yeah, I'm beginning to see that." John said pointedly. "Donovan."

"What about her?" Sherlock didn't bother to disguise the disdain in her tone.

"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it." John said. "That's fucked up, isn't it?"

"Mm. Perhaps." Sherlock said distractedly. "But I said 'dangerous', and you came running. Chivalry or something else?" She said, briefly making eye contact with him. John considered what the man in his flat had said about him missing combat and he realized that he couldn't deny that there was some truth in it. He felt drawn to Sherlock and it wasn't just because she was lovely or the way she said his name in that voice, it was because she was exciting and dangerous and everything that had been missing from his life. They had that much in common at least; fear of boredom. "This is his hunting ground." Sherlock said, launching into another runaway train of thought. "Right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" Sherlock said, having forgotten about her food now as well.

"I don't know, who?" John sighed. He hated riddles.

"A taxi." Sherlock declared. "Look, there across the street. A taxi. Stopped, but nobody is getting in or out. Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever? How can you go everywhere. . . in London, in a cab. Of course 'oh, it's raining, would you like to share a ride?' 'what a coincidence, that's where I'm going too'. Clever." She smiled a slow, cheshire cat grin and jumped up out of her seat, dashing to the door. "Come on, John!"

Sherlock ran out into oncoming traffic, narrowly missing being hit by a car and causing John to vault over the car's bonnet to avoid injury and keep up with her. By the time he reached her side the cab was pulling away. "It's alright." John said. "I got the cab number."

"Good for you." Sherlock said, closing her eyes briefly and forming a mental image of their route in her mind. _Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights. _"This way!"

* * *

John and Sherlock were breathing hard and laughing as they tumbled through the door of 221 Baker Street into the downstairs lobby. "Welcome to London." John repeated, grinning wide.

"I imagine Lestrade will have to answer a few questions." Sherlock giggled, leaning back against the papered wall and trying to catch her breath.

"I can't believe you use an ID with the name 'Greg' on it." John said.

"You'd be surprised how infrequently people _actually_ look." Sherlock smiled.

"That was ridiculous. . . that was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done." John said, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he took in a few deep lungfuls. Sherlock glanced down at the hand. She was unaccustomed to affection, even of the casual sort. Everyone except for Mrs. Hudson was usually so on edge around her that a touch like this seemed very out of place.

"And you invaded Afghanistan." She said. She enjoyed John's laugh, deep and unpretentious.

"That wasn't just me." He said, shaking his head.

"Neither was this. As I recall, I'm the one who made you miss half your supper." Sherlock said.

"That's true. So why aren't we back at the restaurant? I mean, won't the real killer show up still?" John said, dropping his hand.

"Oh, it was a long shot anyway. Besides, I've already contacted Angelo. His people will keep an eye out." Sherlock said, running a hand through her curls to comb them back into place.

"Then what the hell were we doing there?" John said.

"Passing the time. Getting something to eat. Proving a point." She smirked.

"A point about what?" John asked.

"You." Sherlock turned to shout up the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson _will_ be taking the room upstairs!"

"Says who?" John knew his argument was pointless. Somewhere between the pasta and their mad dash through the streets of London he realized that there was nowhere else for him than with Sherlock because after the past twenty-four hours, everything else would just be mundane.

"The man at the door." Sherlock said, noticing the shadow through the frosted glass. The bell chimed and John jumped, turning around and making Sherlock giggle again. John walked to the door and opened it to find Angelo, the owner of the restaurant who had been pseudo-exonerated by Sherlock. The portly, bearded man was holding John's cane.

"Sherlock texted. Said you'd forgotten this." He said, handing it to John who took it dumbly.

"Uh. . ." John stared at the man. _Christ. I ran, RAN through the streets. I jumped alleyways and climbed on rooftops and- I feel great_. "Thanks. Thanks a lot." He said finally.

"No worries. And tell Sherlock we've got our eyes peeled for 'er." Angelo said with a smile. John closed the door and turned around slowly.

"You're welcome." Sherlock said, reading his expression easily.

"You're bloody brilliant, you know." John said. She smiled and stood a bit straighter. She responded to John's compliments the way most young women responded to flattery about their looks.

"Sherlock. . ." Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top of the stairs. "What have you done now? The police, they're wrecking up the place."

"Lestrade." Sherlock said, frowning and marching up the stairs. She pushed her way past Mrs. Hudson and stormed into the room. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"There she is." Lestrade said, sitting casually in one of the mismatched wingback chairs by the hearth. "I knew you'd find the case, I'm not stupid."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Sherlock said caustically. "The same mental lapse that made you think you could just break into my flat?"

"I didn't. It's a drugs bust." Lestrade said. Sherlock realized that they were now playing a game and he had just made his move. She froze. _I've underestimated him._

"Her, a junkie? You've gotta be kidding. Have you even met her?" John said. Sherlock found his foolish loyalty endearing. _This is not how this conversation was supposed to go._ Sherlock bit her lip as Lestrade grinned.

"Oh yes I have." The DI said.

"Lestrade, don't." Sherlock said firmly. "This is childish."

"And I'm dealing with a child." Lestrade said. "You sweep into my crime scene, call us all idiots, and then withhold evidence. I'd be within my rights to cart you in over this."

"So instead you decided to stage a fake drugs bust?" Sherlock said, gesturing to the cops currently rummaging through her kitchen.

"It stops being fake if I find anything." There was no mistaking the warning in his tone.

"But you can't really expect to-" John started.

"John, you may want to shut up now." Sherlock said, pinching her brow.

"Sherlock, this is my case." Lestrade said, ignoring John entirely. Sherlock, however, could not. The look of disappointment on his face was crushing.

"You asked for my help." Sherlock said, rounding on Lestrade.

"I thought maybe rehab would have taught you a thing or two about following the rules." He shouted back.

"It's a clinic, not finishing school." Sherlock spat.

"Alright, stop." John said, his voice louder and stronger than anyone would have expected. "Sherlock, explain."

"I have a history of substance abuse, which the Detective Inspector is very aware of and now exploiting for his own purposes." Sherlock said, narrowing her eyes at Lestrade. "I am clean." _Twenty nine days, twelve hours._

"But is your flat?" Lestrade said. Sherlock knew the answer to that: _No. Cigarettes in the toe of the slipper by the hearth, diamorphine in the false bottom of my lingerie drawer, cocaine under the sixth floorboard from the bedroom window. Just in case._

"Sherlock, we need to talk." John said and was ignored.

"Are these human eyes?" Sally asked, stepping out of the kitchen with a jar in her hand.

"Put those back!" Sherlock shouted.

"They were in the microwave." Sally looked like she might lose her lunch.

"It's an experiment. I'd hardly expect for you to understand." Sherlock said. "What are you doing here on a drugs bust, anyway?"

"Oh, we volunteered." Anderson stepped up next to her, grinning.

"Keep looking, guys." Lestrade said.

"Why bother? She's got the case. What do you need, a bloody knife in her hands?" Anderson said.

"That would hardly be incriminating in a serial poisoning, would it?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Sherlock. We need to talk. Now." John said firmly. She gritted her teeth and gestured for him to follow her into her bedroom. She closed the door and looked around, using the conversation as a pretext to check her stash. _They haven't searched in here yet, which means that they could potentially find me out, no matter how thick they are there is always the potential for blind luck. I could smuggle the drugs out on my person, but how to do so without John seeing?_ "Sherlock!" John had been repeating her name while she was lost in thought. Her attention snapped to him.

"Yes, sorry." She said. "This. . . isn't ideal."

"Isn't ideal?" John laughed drily. "Were you going to tell me?" He asked, his expression wounded which Sherlock didn't understand but she knew that it made her chest feel tight.

"You're disappointed." She said.

"Very good deduction." John replied. "Answer me."

"I don't know. Yes, eventually I imagine that it would have come up. But not like this." She admitted.

"Rehab?" John asked.

"Yes. Hence the need for a flatshare. I lost my old flat when I checked into the clinic." She said, putting the pieces together for him because she doubted his ability to do so himself.

"And you didn't think that this was something a potential flatmate needed to know upfront?" John folded his arms across his chest, managing to look quite imposing in spite of his short stature.

"I thought the violin and dead bodies were quite enough for day one." Sherlock said, trying a bit of humour.

"Sherlock, this isn't funny. This is serious." John said, his voice softer now.

"I am clean, John." Sherlock said. "I swear." She made a mental note to analyze her own anxiety over the idea of John walking out on her later. At that moment she just focused on preventing him from doing so.

"And you intend to stay that way?" John asked.

"The best laid plans of mice and men." She quoted. "I'm an addict, John. I am loathe to admit it, but there are biochemical and psychological conditions that even I can't control. I am clean; I've been through the worst of it. Are you really going to hold my mistakes against me when you've taken everything else on the chin so far?" She asked in an uncharacteristic moment of honesty.

John sighed. "Let's get the coppers out of the kitchen so we can have a proper chat about this." Sherlock bit back a smile. _That's a start._

Sherlock swung upon the door and walked to the living room, still wrapped up in her top coat which made everything she did look more dramatic. "Lestrade, end this."

"You'll agree to work with us? No more running off on your own?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, yes. You've made your point." She acquiesced.

"Good, because we found Rachel." Lestrade said.

* * *

[Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Any comments or criticisms of the changes I've made are welcome. After next chapter we'll be getting into more fluffy fun stuff that is much less scripted so hang in there. Thank you all for reading.]


	6. White Knight

Chapter 6

"She just got in the cab." John paused in the middle of dialling Jennifer Wilson's mobile number. He stood at the window and watched the taxi pull away from the curb in front of 221 Baker Street. "She just got in a bloody cab and left! Where the hell is she going?"

"Oh, who knows?" Lestrade said with a groan, rubbing his face.

"I told you, she does that." Donovan smirked. "Detective Inspector, we're wasting our time."

John shook his head, pressing send and bringing the phone up to his ear. "And right after you told me that, she showed up and made a liar out of you." He said. "Something is going on here."

"The phone is in this apartment; the computer said so. The great _Sherlock Holmes_ missed something and now she's run off with her tail between her legs." Anderson said, snapping off his latex gloves.

"The phone is ringing out." John said.

"Which means that it isn't here." Lestrade shot Anderson a look.

"I'll try the search again." John said, pocketing his mobile and sitting down in front of Sherlock's laptop.

"Does it matter? She's a bloody lunatic!" Donovan said as she threw her hands up in the air. "And you're wasting your time. All of our time." Lestrade looked at his shoes with his hands on his hips.

"All right. Okay, everybody. . . done here." He said. Anderson and Donovan both backed out of the room, knowing their boss well enough that they realized when not to speak. "Why does she always have to pull this shit? I thought things might actually change."

"Well, you know her better than I do." John said, hitting enter and sitting back to watch the website ping the missing phone. _What a fucking day._

"I've known her for five years. Some good, some very bad." Lestrade said. "And no, I don't. She's a tough nut to crack."

"So answer me this: why put up with her? Why are the police working with an amateur. . . and an addict to boot." John asked, ruffling his hair.

"Because I'm desperate. Because she can do things that no one else can do and I need her." Lestrade said. "What's your excuse?" John stared long and hard at the scratched hardwood floor before answering. Most of the cops filed out the door, leaving the DI and John alone.

"The same." John said finally.

"God help us both." Lestrade laughed, heading for the door.

"I'm supposed to move in here with her." John said.

"You are a very brave man." Lestrade stopped in the doorway. "She is great, though. A great woman." He said. "And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky—and patient—she may even be a good one." The DI left the flat and John pushed himself to his feet, reaching for his phone again. This time he called Sherlock.

* * *

In the back seat of the cab Sherlock reached into her pocket to silence her ringing mobile. _John, sorry to postpone our chat._ "How did you find me?" She asked the driver. She had been momentarily distracted by the surreality of the scenario. Now she was noticing everything, her eyes moving from the iPhone that had dropped between the seats (m_issed call from John_) to the shaving foam behind the man's ear (_lives alone_). She noticed the picture frame on the dash (_divorced and doesn't see his kids_) and the pieces all began falling into place.

"Oh, I recognised ya." The cabbie said. "You aren't exactly hard t'spot. Saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh! I was warned about you. Been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it."

Sherlock ignored the flattery and picked out the one piece of important information. "Who warned you about me?"

"Oh, just someone out there who's noticed you." He said. _He's loving this. Knowing more than I do. He's loving that __**I**__ know it. This is his game. I can't give him anything._

"Who would notice me?" She asked, her face a mask. Her phone beeped. She pulled it out of her pocket and read a text from John. **Where the hell are you?** She put her mobile away without answering.

"You're too modest, love." The man chuckled.

"I'm really not." Sherlock said, raising her eyebrow a fraction. She was realistic about both her abilities and her looks and not particularly humble about either, though she put little stock in appearances. After all, appearances were what gave her subjects away more often than not.

"Well, you should be happy then. You've got yourself a fan." The cabbie said. "An' that's all you're gonna know. In **this** lifetime." He pulled the cab into an empty parking lot in front of two identical buildings with neoclassical façades.

"Is this what you do, then? Bore your victims to suicide with idle threats?" Sherlock asked, testing the man's ego. She had a suspicion that he was even more narcissistic than she was. She saw a muscle in his jaw tense just before he got out of the cab, but he said nothing. "Where are we?" She asked. Her phone beeped again and she ignored it. _John. Again. When is he going to give up?_ She reached into her pocket and turned her phone to vibrate without reading the message.

"You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are." The cabbie said, opening her door.

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College." She admitted. "But why?" _Peculiar choice._

"Open, quiet, no one's likely to find you 'till morning." The cabbie said. "That's the thing about being a cabbie."

"Yes, I'm surprised more of you don't branch out." She said sarcastically, making no attempt to move. The cabbie drew a gun and Sherlock had to suppress a laugh. _Fake. Plastic. Squirt gun. . . no, lighter._ "You just walk them in? How dull." She sighed heavily.

"Don't worry, love. It gets better." He said. "Much better. I don't need this with you though, do I? You'll follow me anyway. That's your weakness. You've just got to know."

"I've had more boring evenings." She admitted. "But if this doesn't go somewhere soon I'm going back to the flat to watch television."

* * *

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade—I need to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!" John said to the Sergeant at Scotland Yard who had answered the phone. Sherlock's computer was open on his lap and the website was live updating with the dead woman's GPS. It had taken John mere seconds to realize what must have happened when the search was completed. The cabbie was the killer and Sherlock, for some idiotic reason that John couldn't wrap his mind around, had gone to confront him. Now she was his next victim, kidnapped by a madman. "Er, left here, please. Left here!" He said to his own driver.

"Hullo?" Lestrade's voice sounded confused. "Who is this?" John realized that in his frenzy he'd failed to give the woman his name.

"It's John. John Watson." He said. "Right here!"

"Okay, okay. . . relax. What's Sherlock done now?" Lestrade asked.

"Gotten herself kidnapped, I think." John said. "The phone, the killer has it. He's the cabbie."

"What cabbie?" Lestrade took a moment to put the pieces together. "The one at Baker Street?"

"Yes. Sherlock didn't just run off. She was kidnapped. He's going to kill her." John said it out loud for the first time and his insides went cold. _Oh bloody hell. She could die. She might die._ "Drive faster!"

"All right, John. We're tracking the phone now. You're en route?" Lestrade asked after covering the receiver and shouting orders at someone.

"Yes. I'm on my way. They've stopped at Roland-Kerr Further Education College it says." John read from the screen. "Did you get that?" He asked the driver who nodded.

"Yeah, we've got it. When you get there just sit tight. We're right behind you. Don't do anything stupid." Lestrade said.

"No." John knew he was lying immediately. "Of course, I won't." He hung up the phone and reached behind him, touching the grip of his pistol. _Please, Sherlock. . ._

* * *

Sherlock couldn't hear John shouting her name from the window across the alley. She could barely hear the cabbie talking over the rush of blood in her ears and the thud of her own heartbeat. _Addict. Anything. Not bored. No, I am certainly not bored. I'm __**right.**_ She looked at the pill in her hands, holding it up to the light. _It feels so good._ She put the pill to her lips, looking right through the cabbie. It wasn't about him any more; she'd beaten him. Now she got to prove it. That was the part she loved best. Some part of her brain registered the gunshot and the two distinctly separate sounds of shattering glass before the killer cab driver fell. Sherlock spun around but she could only make out the shape of a figure through the two panes of cracked glass. The cabbie was at her feet, bleeding heavily from a wound that she noted was most likely created by a 9mm bullet. The man groaned and his eyelids fluttered. _No, don't die yet. I have to know._

Sherlock grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled his face up to hers. He yelled and more blood soaked into his shirt and jacket. "Was I right? I was, wasn't I?" She held the pill up to his face. "Did I get it right?!" He moaned in response, focused only on his own pain. She pocketed the pill and dropped him. _Useless. No. . . wait._ "Who is he? Your sponsor. My fan. I want a name."

"No. . ." The man managed to groan.

"You're dying, but there is still plenty of time for pain. Does that frighten you?" She pressed the sole of her boot against his wound. "This will be much, much worse than your aneurysm or that poison, I promise." She said, pressing down steadily. He screamed and she didn't so much as flinch. "A name." She released pressure only to dig down deeper to punctuate her next words. "Give—me—a—name! Now! What is the name?!"

"MORIARTY!" The man finally shouted. Sherlock pulled her foot back and the blood poured freely again. The man was unconscious now and soon he would bleed out. She heard sirens in the parking lot. _Lestrade._ Sherlock sat down in one of the classroom chairs and crossed her legs, taking the pill from her pocket and examining it closely as she waited for the authorities.

* * *

"The shooter wasn't one of yours, then?" Sherlock asked, seated in the ambulance with an orange blanket draped over her shoulders.

"No, cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose." Lestrade said.

"Of course. And here I was touched that one of your lot might have actually come to my rescue." She said sarcastically, smirking at Lestrade. "Why am I wearing this blanket?" She shoved it off of her shoulders. "They keep putting it on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock. Look, Sherlock, we got here as fast as we could. It's John Watson you should be thanking, really. Without his tip—" Sherlock interrupted Lestrade.

"But I'm not in shock." She said, raising her chin slightly.

"Yeah, I can see that. Anyway, we've got nothing to go on so I reckon case closed." Lestrade said. "Unless you have something to say on the matter?" He added hopefully.

Sherlock took a deep breath and organized her thoughts. _9mm, handgun fired over long distance: crack shot. No. . . more than that, a fighter. Someone acclimatized to violence, cool under pressure. The shot was timed and aimed to save me so strong principles, chivalrous, heroic, nerves of steel, military servic—son of a bitch._ "I've got no idea." She said. "Must be the shock." She stood up and scanned the crowd. _Where is he?_ She found John standing alone, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like an innocent bystander. She caught his eye and smiled. From across the parking lot he smiled back and Sherlock felt comforted in a way that she hadn't since she was a girl.

"Are you even listening to me?" Lestrade said.

"What now?" Sherlock didn't look at him. She rolled her eyes at John and saw him bite his lip to stifle a laugh.

"Sherlock, we have to get your statement!" Lestrade said.

"What do you want? I'm in shock—look, I've got the blanket and everything." Sherlock said, waving the blanket still in her hand. "And I just, mostly, caught you a serial killer. Can't this wait?"

"Fine." Lestrade groaned. "We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go. You owe John Watson a thank you, you know. I know _I'll_ never hear one from you."

"Perhaps one day you'll earn one, Detective Inspector." She said, dropping the blanket as she crossed the parking lot to John. "Good shot." She said, giving John a smile that made his throat go dry.

"Erm. . . yes. Yes, it must have been. Through both windows. Sergeant Donovan has been explaining everything." He said awkwardly.

"You'd know." She said smoothly. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I'm all right." John said, clearly confused why she was worried about _him._

"Well, you have just killed a man." She said.

"Yes, but—ah." John grinned. "That's true, isn't it? But it isn't the first time. And he was a bit of a bastard when it comes down to it."

"And a bloody awful cabbie." Sherlock said, clasping her hands behind her back. "You should have seen the route he took to bring us here." John's laugh was contagious and soon Sherlock was giggling as well.

"Stop it!" He whispered, grabbing her arm. He was trying desperately to keep a straight face. "It's a crime scene." He shook his head. His grip softened and Sherlock looked down at his hand uncertainly. Two gestures off affection in a twenty-four hour period may have been the limit of her comfortability. "Are you all right?" His voice was so heartbreakingly sincere that Sherlock decided to allow the breaking of her brand new affection rule.

"Fine." She said. "I was never in any real danger. Just biding my time."

"I saw you, Sherlock. You were going to—bollocks, that's him." John hissed, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. "The man who broke into my flat!"

Sherlock straightened up the front of her coat and pulled up her chin before spinning on her heel. She pulled her arm away from John as subtly as she could manage and hoped that her brother hadn't noticed, though she knew it was a futile wish. He noticed everything. "What are you doing here?" She asked, walking up to the tall man who was leaning against a black limousine.

"I was concerned." He said, his voice cold but not unpleasant.

"Oh, yes. I've heard. Breaking and entering. . . isn't that a bit too much like real work for you?" Sherlock asked.

"So hostile, Sherly. When are you going to realize that you and I are on the same side?" His tone was one of exasperation. John gaped at him calling her 'Sherly'.

"When you join my side, clearly." Sherlock said.

"Your petty grudge is childish." He said. "You aren't a little girl any more, Sherly. And you know how it upsets Mummy, us fighting like this."

"I'm not the one who upsets her." She narrowed her eyes. "And, as you say, I'm not a little girl so why do you still insist on treating me like one?"

"No, no, wait." John said, holding up his hands. "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"Mother. Our mother." Sherlock said. "Who clearly didn't teach my brother any manners."

"Says the pot to the kettle." Mycroft said.

"John, this is my brother Mycroft. My, this is Doctor John Watson who I believe you have already threatened." She said, gesturing between the two men.

"How do you do?" Mycroft bowed slightly.

"He's your brother?" John stared, disbelieving.

"Yes, of course. Though I must say, I'm flattered that you don't see a resemblance." Sherlock said.

"So he's not. . . I don't know, some criminal mastermind? Mafioso or something like that?" John realized how silly he sounded and stared at his shoes.

"Close enough." She said. "He's certainly involved in organized crime."

"For goodness' sake, Sherly. I thought you'd abandoned your conspiracy theories with your silly nose ring." Mycroft sighed. "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He **is** the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or American Central Intelligence on a freelance basis." Sherlock said. "What are you really doing here, My? Did this cabbie have ties to Hezbollah or something?"

"I heard that my little sister had been kidnapped." Mycroft said. "It seemed appropriate. Besides, it was on my way. You look healthy."

"That is a nice way of saying fat, which you should be more sensitive to, brother dear." Sherlock said. She was still self conscious about the pounds she had put on since getting clean—and starting to eat more regularly—but she tried not to let it show in her body language. John looked between them and thought neither could be considered fat. His eyes lingered on Sherlock's curves for longer than could be strictly considered gentlemanly and quickly looked away when he felt Mycroft's eyes on him.

Once again Mycroft seemed to ignore her petty digs, though it was clear from his expression that she was fraying his nerves. "So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it? Still, it's nice to see you getting back in the swing of things." He glanced at John again. "You do know that—"

"Lestrade beat you to it." Sherlock said icily. "Good evening, Mycroft. Do try to avoid starting a war on the way home, you know what it does to traffic." She walked away briskly.

"You couldn't have just said?" John blurted. "You couldn't have said 'hello, I'm Sherlock's big brother. Hurt her and I'll sick the SAS on you'?"

"In what way would that be any more normal than what I did say?" Mycroft asked.

"Good bloody point." John shook his head. _I've already been around her too long._ "So when you said that you were concerned, though, you really are?"

"Yes, of course." Mycroft raised an eyebrow in a manner that was eerily like Sherlock's.

"So this is all some childish feud?" John asked, hoping for more insight into Sherlock.

"She can hold a grudge like no one else: there's another warning for you. If you intend to stay at her side, make certain it is at her _good_ side." Mycroft said.

"Yeah. . . erm, I'm going to go." John said.

"Doctor. Remember my earlier advice, as well." Mycroft said.

"You know, now that I know who you are that all makes a lot more sense." John said. He was clearly not intimidated by Mycroft, which the older man found intriguing. "Don't worry, our landlady will make an excellent chaperone I'm sure." John jogged a bit to catch up with Sherlock.

"Where to now?" John asked as he fell into stop next to her.

"Bart's." She said. "We need to get the powder out of your fingers. I don't imagine you'd serve time for this, but best to avoid the court case. And I need to use the lab." Her fingers lightly touched the pill still in her pocket.

"Do you ever sleep?" John asked.

"Sleep is boring." She replied.

* * *

"No no no no, Sherlock." Molly said, shaking her head adamantly. "I've been here for sixteen hours. I want to go home." She said immediately upon seeing Sherlock standing by her car. Sherlock nudged John forward slightly.

"I know, it's late. I said the analysis could wait until morning but when I told John you wouldn't be here tomorrow he said we should come tonight." Sherlock said smoothly. She was afraid John's look of shock would give her lie away but Molly straightened her hair and flushed.

"Well, I suppose if it doesn't take too long." Molly said. "Nice to see you again, Doctor Watson."

"Uh. . . John, please." He said.

"John." She beamed and Sherlock nearly gagged.

"Come on, let's go then." Sherlock said, practically dragging the two of them back into the hospital.

* * *

"That was horrible." John said after they had said their goodbyes to Molly.

"She isn't that bad." Sherlock said, holding out her arm to hail a cab.

"Not her, you. Why did you lie to her like that?" John asked as the cab pulled up. Sherlock's ability to always find a taxi was yet another seemingly preternatural ability, thought John sincerely hoped that this one wouldn't turn out to be a maniac.

"I would have thought my motivation was clear. I needed the equipment and she was much more likely to give in to you than me." Sherlock said. "She is clearly interested in you. Baker Street, please."

"Well I'm not interested in her!" John said.

"Now who is being insensitive?" Sherlock countered.

"It's not—I'm not—I barely know her." John frowned. He had a suspicion that he wouldn't be interested in the quirky coroner's assistant, no matter how long he knew her, but he didn't say that out loud.

"No harm was done. She may smile a bit more at you now, but I hardly think she'll be scrawling Mrs. Dr. Watson in her paper margins so stop fretting. Dinner?" Sherlock said.

John sighed, giving up. "Starving, yeah."

"There's a good Chinese at the end of Baker Street that is open till two. You can tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle." Sherlock said. "And I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't." John said. He was starting to believe this woman capable of almost anything, but he had to draw the line somewhere.

"Well, I almost can." She smirked.

* * *

[Next up, John and Sherly eat Chinese! I promise, it'll be more interesting than it sounds. I hope that you all enjoyed the intro. Now, on with the story.

Thank you all for reading and reviewing. I can't tell you how amazing all these favorites, follows, and reads are. As always, your input is considered so feel free to let me know what you like/love/hate/desperately need to see happen. Ta.]


	7. Flatmates

Chapter 7

* * *

The table between them was crammed full of small plates and bamboo steamers, each holding a different dim sum delicacy that Sherlock had ordered for the both of them.

"You speak Chinese?" John asked, skewering a bao with his fork.

"Only Mandarin." Sherlock said. "John, no." Her voice was scolding, like talking to a puppy who wasn't housebroken. "You can't use a fork." She reached across the table and yanked the utensil from his hand, replacing it with a pair of enamelled chopsticks.

"I'm hungry." John protested quietly, looking around. "I don't have time to muck about with these things."

"It's really quite simple." Sherlock said. She set her own chopsticks down and adjusted John's fingers around his own.

John watched the intense look of concentration on her face and had to bite back a laugh. _Definitely mad._ When she was satisfied, Sherlock went back to her meal. John, however, was still openly staring at her face.

"I thought you were hungry." She said without looking at him.

"You were going to take the bloody pill, weren't you?" John blurted the question that had been on the tip of his tongue ever since his adrenaline had levelled out.

"No. Of course not." She said, now clearly making a point of not returning his gaze.

"Yes, you were. Is that how you get your kicks, then? You're off drugs so you risk your life to prove that you're clever?" John asked. He set the sticks down, suddenly finding that his appetite had waned.

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said. "Do you really think that I have to go to such lengths to prove my cleverness? I knew all about you from your tan and mobile phone."

"Well, at least you're humble." John rolled his eyes.

"Humility is highly overrated." Sherlock said. "And dull."

"Well, we wouldn't want that." John said. "So. . . you still haven't said."

"Said what?" Sherlock stuffed a dumpling into her mouth.

"You dragged me to Bart's to test the damn pill and you haven't even said if you were right or not." John said.

Sherlock smirked and chewed slowly, leaving John waiting. After she swallowed her smirk evolved into a smug smile. "You can't stand it, can you? Not knowing." Sherlock said. "Now you're beginning to understand."

"Just tell me." John said. He was growing weary of Sherlock always being right.

"Yes." Sherlock said. "I was right." She returned to her meal.

"But you didn't **know** that. Not for certain." John said.

"Of course I did." Sherlock retorted.

"Then why did you need to test it?" John said, picking up his chopsticks again. Sherlock paused, a roll halfway to her mouth. She took a bite and said nothing, but she didn't need to. They both knew that John was right. John finally began to eat and the two continued their meal in amicable silence until John spoke again. "Why didn't you tell me that the man, the one who broke into my flat, was your brother?"

"It didn't seem relevant." Sherlock sipped her tea.

"Didn't seem—fucking hell, Sherlock, I thought he was some sort of criminal psychopath." John said.

"As I said, you weren't far off." Sherlock said. "My family is not a topic I particularly enjoy discussing. Certainly not with someone I have known for less than two days."

"And yet you know all about my sister and me." John said.

"It's hardly my fault that you're oblivious." She waved her hand.

"All right, fine. No questions about Mycroft. Though I would like to know where the hell your parents got these names from." John said, shaking his head. "What about the nose ring?"

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock blinked at him in faux innocence. _Mycroft, you bastard._

"That isn't a question about your family; it's about you." John said. "Nose ring and conspiracy theories. . . what was that about?" Sherlock sighed heavily.

"The trappings of a period of youthful rebelliousness. The Mohawk grew out but the heroin was harder to kick. Are we done with the question and answer portion of this meal now?" Sherlock's words came out lightening fast, as though she was hoping John wouldn't follow them.

John spent a moment trying to imagine Sherlock with a Mohawk. "No, we aren't. Since you brought it up, I think you owe me an explanation. About the drugs."

"You're a doctor, John. You should understand the physical dimension of addiction. On top of that, it feels _marvellous._" She emphasised the word, making it sound obscene. John shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.

"But you're done with it now? Permanently?" John asked, raising both eyebrows expectantly.

"Getting clean isn't an achievement, John." Sherlock explained. "While you're in rehab there are big, tough men in white and irritating therapists that physically prevent you from doing the only thing you want to do. It's getting back to your life that's the challenge." That was precisely why Sherlock kept her stash. She wasn't beating her addiction if the drugs weren't available, but every day that she actively chose not to take them was a victory of the mind. At least that was what she told herself. "If I still intended to use, I would have done it by now." She said plainly. John looked her in the eye and then gave a short nod.

"All right. All right, fair enough." He said, knowing that he had no choice but to believe her. "I don't want to be doling out ultimatums—"

"Then don't." Sherlock said. "Let me guess: you can't be involved in that sort of unpleasantness and you're wary of promises, probably because of your sister—though you will notice that I haven't made any—and you want it known that if I use again, you'll wash your hands of me?"

"I. . . well, yeah. I suppose that is pretty much it." John said, looking down at his plate.

"Fine. Deal. Anything else?" Sherlock said.

"Uh. No." John's voice was small.

"Good. My turn." Sherlock had apparently given up on eating now. "You were actually shot, right?"

"I—what?" John's head snapped up.

"Your limp is completely gone and you showed no sighs of post traumatic stress when you so gallantly gunned down my kidnapper. I'm beginning to question whether or not you were actually wounded." Sherlock steepled her fingers in front of her lips.

"I was." John said. "In the shoulder."

"Shoulder, I thought so." Sherlock dropped her hands and smiled.

"No you didn't." John frowned.

"The left, correct?" Sherlock said, having noticed a stiffness when he put on and took off his coat.

"Lucky guess. You had a fifty-fifty chance." John said.

"Simple deduction." Their waitress came by to refill their tea and drop off the bill as well as two fortune cookies.

"Are you going to deduce my fortune, then?" John asked, reaching for a cookie. Sherlock broke hers neatly and barely glanced at it.

"You will meet an enigmatic, brilliant stranger." Sherlock said.

"No, that already happened." John cracked the cookie and read the fortune to himself. **There is nothing new under the sun.**_I beg to differ._ John felt strangely optimistic, considering the unusual and dangerous events of the past day and a half.

"No, I meant my fortune." Sherlock said, showing him the scrap of paper.

"Would you describe me as 'enigmatic'?" John smiled.

"No." Sherlock said. She was miles away again.

"Well who do you think it's about?" John's brows furrowed slightly.

"I don't think that this little bit of drivel means a thing." Sherlock scoffed. "Though I do expect that I'll be hearing from someone soon." She seemed thrilled at the prospect.

"Who? What's got you so cheerful all of a sudden?" John asked.

"Moriarty." Sherlock said the name slowly.

"Who is that?" John said.

"I have no idea." Sherlock grinned. "Isn't that wonderful?"

"You're barking." John sighed.

"I'm not the one with a therapist." Sherlock said.

"I think I might take your brother's advice." John said.

"To stay away from me?" Sherlock rolled her eyes. _Mycroft and his petty meddling._

"No." John glanced down at his leg. "To fire my therapist."

* * *

"That's not the way the bloody rules work, Sherlock!" John shouted in frustration.

"It's the only possible explanation." She said, folding her arms across her chest.

"Mr. Black did not, in fact, kill himself." John said, throwing his hands up in the air. The Cluedo board was spread out on the table between them and their argument had lasted longer than the actual game.

"No, of course not. He's faked his death and impersonated one of the supposed guests and is now trying to cover his tracks." Sherlock pressed her fingertips together and stared intently at the board, having already memorized her clues.

"No. No, no, no. I am not doing this." John said, standing up. "Do you even listen to yourself?"

"That's what I have you for." Sherlock said. John and Sherlock had been living together for two months and every time John thought he had finally grown accustomed to her ways, she developed a new irritating, and oddly endearing, quirk. Right now she was doing her best to make him hate all board games. "We could try to play Scotland Yard again. You can even be Mr. X."

"Christ no!" John said. "You can't strike out paths on the board just because it's 'impossible to get a taxi cab on Fulham Road at that time of night'. It's not **in the rules**."

"Then the rules are idiotic." Sherlock said, falling back on the sofa and crossing her ankles over the arm.

"You need another case. What about the one Lestrade tipped you off on? The Sussex thing?" John asked hopefully.

"Obvious." Sherlock pouted. "The boy's older brother was trying to poison him."

"Poison?" John wasn't sure they were thinking of the same case.

"Mm. With a blow dart gun. The boy's mother has been keeping it a secret. I sent a letter to the father explaining the whole thing." Sherlock examined her nails. "The brother is seeing a therapist and being shipped off to Harrow next term, case closed."

"And the woman who was round the other day. . . Miss Sutherland, the one with the missing boyfriend?" John asked, remembering the quiet, bespectacled secretary that Sherlock had interviewed in the flat.

"They met on the internet, hardly difficult." She sighed. "It's her stepfather."

"Her stepfather killed her boyfriend?" John leaned forward slightly, intrigued.

"No, no. . . her stepfather _is _the boyfriend." Sherlock said. "The girl was threatening to move away from home, taking her inheritance with her so the stepfather and mother conspired to break her heart and send her right back into their arms."

"That's—sick!" John spat. "What did she say when you told her?"

"I didn't." Sherlock replied.

"But she hired you to find her boyfriend. And you have to tell her what her parents are up to." John said.

"I never get involved in _affaires de coeur._ She wouldn't have believed me anyway." Sherlock said. "I did tip of Lestrade that he should look into the stepfather's finances. He married up, way up, and yet he's already worried about finances. There are only so many _legal_ ways to go through that kind of cash."

John hung his head. "Fine. Poker, then?" Sherlock sat up immediately, smiling.

"Brilliant." She said, sweeping the Cluedo board off of the table and onto the floor. John couldn't help but smile. He found her happiness infectious and though he complained about constantly having to entertain her he was secretly thrilled that she wanted _him_ around and not anyone else.

"All right." John laughed, getting up to get a deck of cards. "But we're not playing for money. My cheque book is useless enough as is."

"Then what do you suggest?" Sherlock asked, seating herself opposite him with her cool, calm poker face already intact.

_A kiss._ The thought came unbidden and John cleared his throat. "Uh. . . uhm, chores?" Thoughts like that had been cropping up more and more lately. It was to be expected, though. It had been almost a week since John had left the flat. Being cooped up with a woman as lovely as Sherlock dominating all of his time was bound to make a bloke think some strange things.

"Mrs. Hudson does all that needs to be done." Sherlock said, her stare boring into John. He was suddenly, irrationally afraid that she could read his mind.

"No body parts in the kitchen for a month?" John suggested. "No, wait. . . my sister is coming to town. You have to—"

"Too late. You said body parts." Sherlock said, taking the deck from him and shuffling it with deft fingers. "Afraid whatever you had in mind with regards to Harriet is off the table."

"Bollocks." John said. "You will be nice, though. . . won't you?" Sherlock just stared at him. "Just promise you'll try." He said hopefully. More staring. "Right. Fine. Just don't deduce her. Out loud."

"We'll see." Sherlock said. "Five card stud." She said, dealing out the cards.

* * *

[Sorry about the delay in updating. Chapter 8 will be up shortly and we'll get to meet Harry! Until then, I hope you enjoyed this fluff.

The case references here are for the Sussex Vampire and Case of Identity short stories, for those real Holmes buffs. And this takes place before the events of the Blind Banker, for those of you keeping score at home. Thank you so much for your patience and for reading! Ta.]


	8. Siblings

Chapter 8

"I put up with your brother, that's all I'm saying." John said as they waited on the platform for Harry's train to arrive.

"Yes." Sherlock said through her teeth. "That is all you have been saying for quite some time now. And I still fail to see the relevance." She had her coat collar turned up and her hands deep in her pockets in spite of the unseasonably warm weather, not to mention the fact that they were indoors. She spoke to John without looking at him, her eyes scanning the crowd in a precise, organized pattern. Observing unwitting travellers was the only reason Sherlock had agreed to accompany John to the station in the first place. "I don't put up with my brother, so I hardly expect you to. That is your own choice."

"He broke into my flat! He looked at my—" John lowered his voice. "My bloody therapist's file!"

"So you're afraid of him." Sherlock said smoothly.

"What? No." John's immediate retort made his companion smile. She loved his fragile, male ego; bruising it was a constant source of amusement and insight.

"Then why point out my brother's use of his considerable power and means in defence of your unfathomable politeness to him?" She asked.

John took in a deep breath and exhaled through flared nostrils before proceeding in an even tone. He had realized in short order that shouting at Sherlock yielded absolutely nothing. "I am trying to say that there is no way my sister can do anything worse than your brother has already done. So perhaps you could deign to be nice, or some approximation of nice, just for two damn days."

"Come now, John, give her a chance. She hasn't even disembarked the train yet." Sherlock said.

John scrubbed his face with his hands. "For me, Sherlock. Please?" His voice was tired and worn. _Why do I even bother?_

"I will try." Sherlock said with an almost imperceptible nod of her head.

"Really?" John's jaw went slack. "Why?"

Sherlock wasn't sure what the actual answer was, but she never fell short on sarcastic retorts. "Because it might stop you from talking long enough for me to form a single thought not marred by your incessant wining." She said. _Not bad._

"There she is. Harry!" John waved his arm and shouted over the crowd.

"No such luck, then." Sherlock drawled.

* * *

Sherlock sat across the table from John and his sister, scrutinizing them both over the rim of her ornately decorated tea glass. Harriet's hair was redder than her brother's but it had the same wavy texture and fell just past her shoulders. Her eyes were a dull grey blue, not John's rich brown, but they shared the same round face, earlobes, and upper lip. She was pretty enough and factoring in how irritatingly outgoing she seemed to be, Sherlock could see how she managed the bed-hopping that so annoyed her brother. Considering their common and unique attributes, Sherlock extrapolated several variations on what their parents might have looked like while trying to tune out Harriet's robust voice. "—so then I said:"

"Oh dear God." Sherlock said, not quite under her breath. She scolded herself for not realizing that an evening train would mean getting roped into a social dinner. She had demanded Moroccan, hoping to put John off the idea altogether, but had unluckily hit upon Harriet's favourite food.

"Something wrong, Sherlock?" John asked, interrupting his sister and staring at his flatmate pointedly.

"Nothing at all, John." She said, looking right back at him and narrowing her eyes slightly. Harry cleared her throat.

"So, my brother tells me that the two of you aren't dating." She said, amusement wrinkling the corners of her eyes as it did John's on the rare occasions that he smiled. Sherlock shifted her steely gaze from brother to sister and remained silent. After a few uncomfortable heartbeats Harry's smile faltered. "Well?"

"I didn't hear a question." Sherlock said, her expression placid.

"Are the two of you a couple?" Harry gestured with her finger to emphasize each word of her query.

"Have you often known John to be a liar?" Sherlock tilted her head slightly.

"Him? No way." Harry laughed.

"Then, Harriet, I don't hear a question _of import._" Sherlock straightened her neck again. Harry stiffened at the use of her given name and the ice in the other woman's tone.

"But you are shagging, yeah?" Harry said, her smile long gone.

"Right, should we order?" John said, looking around for a waiter.

"Is that what John said?" Sherlock's left eyebrow raised a half inch.

"Quite the opposite, but—" Harry started.

"Can we get someone over here?" John asked desperately to a girl walking by carrying a water pitcher.

"Right away, sir." The girl scampered off.

"Once again, you seem to have your answer." Sherlock replied.

"You were right, Johnny. Difficult doesn't even begin to cover it." Harry said.

"Difficult?" Sherlock sat up just a bit straighter.

"That's not what I said." John turned around in his chair completely, praying for any interruption.

"No, sorry... you said mad." Harry smirked.

"And brilliant." John offered.

"And demanding, frustrating, and impossible." Harry said.

"And brilliant." John didn't dare look at Sherlock, who simply took a deep breath and smiled her slow, predatory smile.

"And all of these adjectives lead you to believe that we were involved romantically?" Sherlock said. "That makes sense. How _is_ the divorce going, by the way?"

"Would you care to order?" The smiling waiter asked as he approached the table.

"Dear Christ yes!" John shouted, sweat beading around his hairline.

* * *

"I think that went well, don't you?" Sherlock asked from her comfortable armchair in their flat, a book splayed across her lap. John entered the room with a stack of neatly folded linens and a pillow in his arms, dressed in pinstriped pajamas.

"Up until the tagine throwing." John sighed.

"I've disappointed you again, haven't I?" Sherlock closed the book and laced her fingers on top of it.

"As I recall, you weren't the one flinging food." He said, dropping down onto the couch. "How's your coat?"

"At the cleaner's." She frowned slightly.

"Separation anxiety?" John smiled.

"You aren't as amusing as you think you are." Sherlock replied. "Why aren't you in your own bed?"

"Harry's got a sprain in her lower back." John explained. "She needs the bed so I'll take the sofa."

"Ah." Sherlock said.

"What?" John asked.

"Hm?" Sherlock played dumb.

"You're using the 'oh I see' voice. It's maddening." John said.

"Apologies." Sherlock said.

"So what's 'ah' worthy, then?" John sighed.

"Just that imagined injuries seem to run in the family. Perhaps you should do a medical study on the subject." She said, tapping his knee with her book.

"Ha ha." John said. "As soon as the party is over with I'll be back in my bed and Harry will be back in Surrey. It can't come fast enough."

"Party?" Sherlock asked, strumming her long fingers on the book's cover.

"Oh, yeah. Tomorrow night down at the pub for my birthday." John said, leaning his chin on the heel of his hand.

"Your birthday? Is it April already?" She asked, a line forming between her brows.

"You know when my birthday is?" John sat up, his lips parting in surprise.

"April twelfth, nineteen seventy seven." Sherlock said.

"And yet you didn't realize what month it was." John chuckled.

"Useless trivia." Sherlock said. John was genuinely flattered that his birthday had clearly managed to rate in the useful trivia category. "Why did I not get an invitation?"

"I uh, well, uh... hold on! Why the hell would you want to come? You dislike people, social situations, my sister, and anything that isn't mainly about you." John said.

"You forgot public houses." Sherlock said.

"You didn't answer my question. If this is just about picking another fight with Harry..." John said.

"Why would I want to do that? I was clearly the victor." Sherlock smiled.

"What is it about, then?" John asked.

"Well, considering that it is your birthday, one could quite easily deduce that it is about you." Sherlock said without inflection. John groped for words but he could find none. He was painfully aware of the pointless, childish crush he'd been harbouring for weeks but now he had one thing he'd never though even a remote possibility: hope. "If you don't want me there, I understand." Sherlock said finally, assuming that John was searching for a way to let her down nicely, fitting with his overly sensitive nature.

"No!" John shouted. His cheeks coloured as he adjusted his volume to a reasonable level. "No. Sherlock, I would—it would be great if you came. Brilliant, really. Just brilliant." The smile he gave her warmed Sherlock to the core; a feeling she found most unsettling.

"Yes, well... I wouldn't want to miss seeing your dear sister in her natural habitat, now would I?" She quipped, pushing herself out of the chair.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." John said, standing as well out of courtesy long since ingrained in him.

"Mmm. Enjoy the sofa." She said, tucking the book under her arm and making her way to her own bedroom, by way of the kitchen to check briefly on her tongue samples in the icebox.

* * *

"Quite an expensive gift." Mycroft said, closing his umbrella as he entered the shop. Sherlock's shoulders went rigid at the sound of his voice but she didn't turn around. She was standing in front of a pedestal in the sleek, white and chrome Omega Boutique examining a timepiece under the watchful eye of one of the clerks.

"If you've come to harass me about my spending habits I should point out that this is a watch and I am unlikely to snort or shoot it." She said. To his credit, the clerk didn't even bat an eyelash.

"Simply curious, sister dear." Mycroft said, moving to stand next to her. "Lovely." He said, plucking the watch from her fingers. "John will be pleased."

"Since I am spending money _I_ have earned and not from the meagre stipend you insist on giving me, I don't see how it is any of your concern." She said, taking the watch back. Sherlock had burned through her trust fund quickly and since her stint in rehab her brother had seen to it that she had just enough money to live comfortably but not to do anything he might deem stupid.

"You're right, of course." Mycroft smiled condescendingly. "A birthday gift. How quaint. Will you sing and wear a funny hat, I wonder? Will there be cake?"

"Of course your mind would go right to cake." She said. "I am just trying to be civil. Isn't that what you want?"

"But is that all you want, I wonder?" Mycroft asked. "It's perfectly natural to crave companionship, I've been told. If someone had to finally get under your skin, I can think of no one better than the good Doctor."

"He hasn't gotten under anything." Sherlock said.

"And this troubles you?" Mycroft blinked. "I believe that is regarded as an over-abundance of information exchanged between brother and sister."

"The only thing that troubles me is your overly long nose in my business." She spat.

"Don't fret, Sherly." Mycroft patted her shoulder before taking up his umbrella again and heading for the door. "I approve." She heard the door open and close behind her and stared down at the watch in her hands.

"Miss? Should I box this up for you?" The clerk said politely.

"No." Sherlock said, putting it down and turning on her heel for the exit.

* * *

[Really, terribly sorry for the delay. Between the Hols, family visiting, and moving house there just haven't been enough hours in the day. But here you are. I hope it was worth the wait and I should be back to regular updates now. Next up: John's _wonderful _birthday party. Thank you all so much for reading.]


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